if you'd been a dog
by teethlikedog
Summary: Knives out, catch the mouse. TDK; Joker/Batman


Post-TDK nonsense; abandon canon all ye who enter here. Blood. Slash. Title by Radiohead.

**if you'd been a dog, they would have drowned you at birth**

He can remember a time when he wasn't _enjoying_ life. When he took it all far too seriously, followed all the rules and played all the petty games because the world might not be fair, but what was the point if you cheated? You just had to keep your head down, keep at it, and someday it would all come good. He can remember when he had plans. And he can remember how the unfair world took his plans and smashed them to pieces, bits of SUPPOSED TO BE scattered around his feet and he thought: _this is what I get for following the rules? THIS? _and then he decided -

- or not. This may not be something that ever happened. All he knows is he's learned not to take things too seriously. When something's funny, he laughs, and some days the whole world is just so. damn. FUNNY. Some days, he thinks he'll never stop.

--

He gets out. The details aren't what's important, they never are, it's the _shape_ of the thing that matters. The idea outweighs the execution, though of course he always likes to do things with style. Let's just say that he might not have plans, but he has inspirations, and one of the benefits of a lack of planning is the ability to take advantage of opportunities that present themselves. Really, they almost make it too easy.

He does not lay low. He does not fall back and regroup. He does not take the time to consider his next move. You have to grab life by the scruff of the neck and _shake_, that's always been his philosophy, and he wouldn't want them forgetting about him, would he?

Try to really understand: the details aren't what's important here. The what's and who's and why's of the operation, that's not what will be remembered in twenty years. What matters is the _impression_ you make, terror and death and chaos. What matters is the foiling of plans, the upsetting of order, taking society by the throat and _shake-shake-shake_, the simplicity of pain and panic.

(He knows, of course, that this is all pretty childish: kid's stuff, pulling pigtails stuff. Because what he _really_ wants is for the Bat to pay attention. What he wants is to be _noticed_. It's funny, really.)

To catch a mouse, you use cheese. And to catch a flying rat? _Hostages._ It's a simple trap, an obvious trap, and he knows Batman will walk into it without a thought, because he's got all this nobility and an overwhelming need to defend the innocent, and crouching behind that a not-so-subtle death wish. (This, of course, is why the Joker could never kill him; that would just be giving him what he wants. And things would be much too boring if he did.) He's right, naturally: the Bat makes his dramatic entrance, frees the hostages and takes down his flunkies (you just can't get good help these days and lets himself be taken by surprise far too easily.

And when the Joker has him pinned to a wall with a big shiny blade through his gut (far too many chinks in that armour) it suddenly occurs to him that he has no idea what to do next.

--

He can remember what it was like to have nothing, his entire life, nothing. He can remember what it was like to grow up weird, _wrong_, and how all the kids hated him but were too scared to do anything about it. Even then he knew the damage you could do with a pencil. He learned young not to put much value on possessions or people: the former could be pawned or smashed or stolen, and the latter, well, the less said and all that.

Just remember: this may not be true. He has never put much value on truth either, or on memory, because both are tricky and betraying things. But either way the end result is the same. He knows how to _want_, but not what to do when he _gets._

--

It all happens in an instant. There is a smell of blood and sweat and Kevlar and he can feel the slick handle of the knife in one hand, lurching breath beneath the other where it's splayed across the armour for leverage. The Bat's mouth is twisted with rage and the shadowed eyes are filled with determined righteousness, all so serious and noble. He thinks: _give us a smile_ and leans in to slide his tongue along the creased corner of that mouth, as if he could turn it upwards, and at the same time twists the knife, feeling a flood of warmth over his hand. Sees the bewilderment and pain in those heroic eyes and grins.

All this happens in an instant, or perhaps it never happens at all, because a second later the Bat is dragging the blade out of his side (look at all that _blood_) and the Joker's landing on his back halfway across the room. He's finding it hard to breathe, and when he laughs his ribs grate and tickle in a way that suggests they might be broken, but this it's all too perfect to stop. Batman comes and stands over him, fist raised to deliver another blow, but he's done for today, just lies there laughing; he knows when he's won.

--

He can remember a lot of things, and hey, you never know, maybe some of them even happened. Would you like to know where he got these scars? From his father, from his mother, from the mob. In a bar fight, in a prison cell, in a bathroom mirror. The story changes but the outcome doesn't, and that's the thing, the thing that no one else ever seems to realise. Because they say the devil's in the details, but they're wrong: it's results that matter, and he's always been good at getting those.

And right now the details might suggest he's been beaten, but he sees that look on the hero's face, and all he can think is: _what a result! _

--

Sirens scream and there's a racket on the stairs: Gotham's finest are at the door. With a last long look and a swirl of his cloak the Bat is gone, and then he's alone, and still laughing. Really, he never ever stops.


End file.
